Chapter 18 The Bog Dwellers
eighteen
The Bog Dwellers
Njord
The village sprawled along a natural harbor, its wooden houses and boat-sheds mostly intact but bearing the signs of Sveinn’s raid: scorch marks and broken door frames. The villagers gathered on the rocky beach, watching the approach of the foreign longships with wary eyes.
“Njareby isn’t completely destroyed,” Skalmold observed, joining Njord on the helm. “But the land is wounded. The corruption runs deep here.”
Njord nodded. Whatever had happened here, it went beyond simple raiding. He could sense its presence in the air, a breath of ill seier, a wrongness he couldn’t quite place.
Silently, he guided the ship toward the harbor, the other two vessels of his little fleet following behind. As they drew closer, more families gathered on the wooden walkways, parents and siblings looking for their loved ones among the passengers of the ship.
“What are we doing here?”
The youths abducted as thralls were tense, but it was Andora who dared to address him, asking what they were all dying to know.
Thori stepped to her side, putting a grounding hand on her shoulder.
He was good with the children, Njord noted irritably.
And Njord’s colors, the deep blue of the ocean and the creamy white of the foam-capped waves, suited him only too well, even better than Asgard’s raven and red.
Njord acted without thinking and was by no means driven by a desire to win Thori over. Dropping the spell disguising him as Norrin Stormtamer, he let everyone see who he truly was.
Njord of Nóatún.
Master of storm and sea.
Royalty of Vanaheim and ruler of these lands.
Andora gasped, and several of the young thralls sank to their knees.
“You know me. I’m Njord of Nóatún, and I’m here to bring you back to your home, to your families.” He turned toward the gathering crowd at the harbor. “People of Njareby, I bring back your stolen children!”
The villagers on the docks erupted in cheers, their voices carrying across the water, joyous and relieved. Children pointed and laughed with delight, while their elders fell to their knees in reverence.
“It’s Njord,” they said. “The Shipbreaker has come!”
Andora covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes brimming with tears.
“My Lord,” she whispered, ready to fall to her knees too.
“Now, don’t kneel. Up with you all,” Njord grumbled. “Your time as thralls is over. You’re returning home today as free people.”
As Njord oversaw the ship’s docking, he couldn’t help but notice how Thori watched the scenery with unreadable eyes.
He looked unbearably handsome in Njord’s clothes.
But his jaw was tight, his posture carefully controlled.
Did he resent the adoration the people of Njareby showed Njord? Or was he homesick, thinking of Asgard?
There was no time to dwell on the thought. Njord stepped onto the dock first, ordering Thori and Skalmold to follow him. The villagers maintained a respectful distance, their reverence tinged with curiosity about the gorgeous stranger at Njord’s side.
He watched the freed thralls reunite with their loved ones, a scene both joyful and heartbreaking.
Andora was among the lucky ones who still had family left to find.
She flew into the arms of an elderly woman, probably her mother, both weeping openly.
But others had nobody left to greet them; their kin killed during the raid.
They were welcomed and consoled by their community, at least. A small mercy.
“I know who’s responsible for your loss,” Njord said, voice carrying across the assembled crowd. “I’ll bring them the punishment they deserve. Eventually.”
The villagers hung on his every word, grateful and marveling, but it was the woman Andora had hugged who approached him first.
“I’m Ingibjorg, my Lord. I’m Andora’s aunt and the elder of this village. You brought back our children. How can we ever thank you?”
“There’s no need to thank me. But you can tell me about the raid. Tell me what happened here.”
Ingibjorg’s face darkened.
“It was strange, my Lord. The attack came at dawn, but we were warned by old Skeggi, who lived on the edge of the marshlands. He stumbled into the village and spoke of shapes in the mist, but—” She shuddered.
“Something was wrong with him. He talked, but his eyes were empty. As if his spirit had fled, his hugr, fylgja, and hamingja, all gone. We found him later, collapsed in the square, still breathing, but… hollow.”
“What kind of seier would do such a horrible thing?” Thori breathed. He’d been listening with growing unease, one hand absently touching the collar around his neck. “What kind of vala would—?”
“Not a vala,” Skalmold said, her voice tight with concern. “More like a priestess worshipping something old and unforgiving. Where is Skeggi’s farm?”
Andora’s aunt led them through the village, past wooden longhouses covered with turf. They followed an uneven path that meandered away from the harbor through birch and pine trees towards the marshy lowlands. The strange presence Njord had sensed earlier grew stronger with each step.
“There,” Ingibjorg said, pointing toward a neglected wooden house that sat at the edge of the bog. “Skeggi lived alone out here for years ever since his wife passed away.”
The house looked abandoned; its door gaping open like the maw of an animal. The corruption radiated from within, thick and cloying like smoke.
“Can you feel that?” Skalmold asked, shoulders tense and hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
To Njord’s surprise, it was Thori who gave her a terse nod. Was he still affected by the aftermath of the ritual, or was he not as dense when it came to matters of seier as Njord had thought?
Thori walked over to the corner of the house as if he wanted to inspect something, holding himself like a lord despite the collar around his neck.
“Stay close,” Njord said, fighting down a growing uneasiness.
This place felt wrong, and he couldn’t allow his unarmed thrall to walk around unattended. Thori gave him a dirty look, but resumed his place at Njord’s side. Better.
Stepping inside the house, Njord was immediately hit by a horrible stench. What had once been the simple dwelling of a farmer had turned into something dreadful.
In the center of the single room, where the hearth once had been, stood a crude altar made of stacked blocks of peat. Its dark surface was carved with strange symbols that weren’t any runes Njord recognized. And the walls…
Thori made a choked sound next to him.
Njord could relate. The stench in the confined space was sickening.
It hailed from the dozens and dozens of bog creatures nailed to the walls. Toads and vipers and swamp birds, their crushed bodies forming symbols of their own.
“These runes,” Thori mumbled as he leaned closer despite his obvious revulsion.
“They’re of no tradition I recognize. The style is ancient, but I can only guess at their meaning.
” He frowned adorably, trying to decipher the twisted marks even as his face paled.
“Binding. Summoning. Something about… awakening?”
Admittedly amused despite the circumstances, Njord wanted to ask where Thori, of all people, might have acquired such knowledge of the art of seier, but Skalmold’s sharp intake of breath interrupted him.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“They’re coming back,” she hissed, already unsheathing her sword.
The ground beneath their feet trembled as if shaken by an earthquake. Outside, they could hear dogs howling in the distance, and somewhere a cow bleated in terror.
“The bog,” Ingibjorg gasped, pointing through the open doorway toward the marshland that pressed close against the farmhouse. “There’s movement out there!”
Even as she spoke, the swamp began to bubble and churn. Dark water rose from hidden depths, and from that foul morass, shapes emerged.
They’d been human once, but centuries of bog-sleep had changed them.
Their flesh was black as the peat they’d risen from, their skin preserved but leathery and twisted.
Unlike any draugr Njord had previously encountered, these were the remains of people drowned in the mire, either accidentally or intentionally.
Their movements were jerky, but they possessed an unnatural speed that hinted at just how dangerous they were.
“Bog dwellers,” Skalmold said. “The ancient dead, risen from their slumber.”
“Get back to the village, Ingibjorg,” Njord commanded, pulling his battle ax from his belt. “Warn the others. Skalmold, escort her.”
“But—”
“Go. Now.”
The creatures were already closing in on the farmhouse as Njord and the others hastily stepped outside. The bog dwellers moved with a disturbing, shambling gait, cutting off the most direct path back to the village.
“Behind you!”
Thori’s warning came just in time. Njord spun, his ax deflecting clawed fingers that would’ve opened his throat. The bog creature hissed, its ancient features twisting with malevolent intelligence. By the waves, this thing had sneaked up on them.
“Stay behind me,” Njord growled, annoyed at being surprised by these creatures and that Thori wasn’t retreating with the others.
His reckless godling was unarmed, still weak from his illness, and no match for these ancient horrors.
But Thori had already positioned himself behind Njord to watch his blind spots.
“Two more from the left, another circling the house,” he said, moving with sinuous grace to avoid Njord’s sweeping ax.
Njord beheaded the creature that had first attacked him with a clean strike. It crumbled to the ground, whatever magic had awakened it, leaving with an audible whoosh. But more bodies hauled themselves from the depths, their hollow eyes fixed on the house and the corrupted shrine inside.
“There!” Thori pointed toward a massive shadow rising from the deepest part of the bog. It wore the remnants of bronze armor, marking it as a warrior from the ancient days before iron came to the north.